Sixteen Circa Doomsday
by Kumquats
Summary: The story of the latest and greatest Shark.


-1**SIXTEEN CIRCA DOOMSDAY**

In the beginning, Frank created the heavens and the earth.

There are nuances to being a Shark that go unobserved because they are immutable. No one sat down and said that all Sharks would be between the ages of twelve and sixteen. These are nuances of character, the nooks and crannies of the Shark superpsyche. These are the unwritten rules.

Things have changed.

There aren't very many Sharks left who fit all the criteria. There aren't very many Sharks left who are willing to be called Sharks.

Let me tell you a story.

Chris Weaver grew up in Onett. Chris Weaver would be the first to tell you it was a real nowhere place, the backwards-burbs of the century, the last place anyone could conceivably want to live.

Chris Weaver had a reputation for spitting, on men and dogs and cars, and Chris Weaver was a Shark before Frank built the clubhouse behind the arcade and before the flyers started showing up in Onett High.

Chris is an adherent to the unwritten rules, the fantastic codex of destruction. Chris is an adherent to anarchy and unlaw, an uprising, a personal rebellion.

The day Frank gave the Sharks a name and a home, Chris was the first in line to shake Frank's hand.

The day Frank let the Sharks down and let a punk named Ness walk all over them, Chris was the first out of the arcade and back onto the streets.

And he still had a reputation for spitting.

There aren't very many Sharks left who fit all the criteria. Being a Shark is not the product of hard work or determination. Being a Shark is a born characteristic.

Sharks are born per capita, per generation, there is a cosmic quota that slowly fills. Sharks have been born into every society on the face of the Earth, in all days and ages, and these Sharks have merely come and gone. Chris Weaver coined a term for the proportion of Sharks to sheep in Onett.

Anomaly.

Nowhere else in the world has this happened, Chris Weaver would tell throngs of Sharks in the arcade basement, nowhere else has the report of anarchy been answered so attentively.

Anomaly.

The world is not prepared for this, Chris Weaver would tell throngs of Sharks in the arcade basement, the world is not prepared for the uprising to come all at once, all so strong, all so successfully.

I shouldn't have to clue you in to the goal at the heart of every true Shark. This is another one of those unwritten rules, this is the unshakable faith of every Shark; this is the belief that the Earth belongs to the young, and the young should rightly inherit it.

The work of the Shark is the work of an atom caught in a massive gambit to overturn the Earth. Individually weak and erratic, but strong when focused; atomic power is nuclear. The spirit of the Shark is awakened in alignment, in joining forces with other atoms, in turning over arcades and schools and small pieces of the Earth until all at once everything can change.

Anomaly.

The world is not prepared for this. Onett, boring and podunk as it is, is heir to a powerful turning point in history. So surmised Chris Weaver, circa March 1993, on his soapbox in the arcade basement.

Things have changed.

Frank's legacy is legacy. The days of regular meetings after school at Onett High are gone, the days of skateboarding and dark fins and leather jackets are gone, all gone.

The days where it was safe to walk on the streets of Onett are gone. But the few remaining Sharks, huddled in Chris Weaver's basement, are not caught off guard. They are not surprised. They are four pillars in an otherwise tumbling wreck, four obstinate guards in some Escheresque maze. Chris Weaver was the first to see it, was the first to point it out. Chris Weaver knew it was coming for a long time.

July 1993-- Chris and a ragtag band of Sharks arrive at Onett High with eggs and toilet paper to discover something altogether surprising and uplifting. The windows, slated to be egged, are already broken. The walls, slated to be TP'd, are cracked and smashed. The building is a ruin. As the interim leader of the Sharks, Chris Weaver knows for a fact that this was not the Sharks' work.

Someone else stepped in and destroyed that icon of authority. Chris Weaver tingled with excitement the moment he made the connection; someone else was fighting on their side.

Anomaly.

There were other heroes in Onett.

The Sharks did their best to keep up, tried to vandalize and pillage but everything they tried was already done. Gardens were being burned to cinders. Signs were being smashed. Try and try as they did, Chris Weaver and the dozen or so Sharks left had no place left in Onett for their small-time heroism. They were outdone.

Dwindling attendance turned downward even more sharply. Fast-forward to the present, to Chris Weaver's basement, and the four bodies huddled on the floor.

Let me introduce you to Onett's justice team.

There are no names at this point. Names have been discounted, turned aside because of the associated risks. If you know your comrades' names, you're a liability if the police catch you. When they torture you, your liability becomes inevitability. One person can kill everyone.

Chris Weaver is adamant on points like these. Chris Weaver insists the cops will kill Sharks if they catch Sharks, insists the worst-case scenarios are the everyday scenarios.

To Chris Weaver, this is a very serious war. To Chris Weaver, this is a very real rebellion against a very real dictatorship.

Only in Onett, he insists. Anomaly. Only in Onett.

In lieu of names there are numbers. Chris Weaver is appropriately number 01, and his three brothers-in-arms are accordingly 02, 03, and 04. Chris Weaver has taken time out to ensure he doesn't know anything more than he needs to know about the last surviving Sharks. It's strictly business from this point out.

With a strong sundering kick Chris puts his foot through the thrice-locked cabinet in his basement. His father's hunting rifle is sitting there, immaculate and pristine, and Chris Weaver hoists it onto his shoulder. He buckles under the weight momentarily, unfamiliar with the apparatus. Chris Weaver has only dreamed of holding a gun.

The other three Sharks fall in line behind Chris, throw on their black masks and their black sweatshirts and like shadows the Sharks slink towards the door to the surface.

How many days has it been now since the full-out invasion? They called it the Overrunning, short and simple and sweet, because it is what it is what it is. They've taken over now, the invaders, they control the topworld. Strange machines and gibbering creatures, the new citizens of Onett; no one else is permitted on the streets, no one else could want to be.

There's no communication. There was only bloodshed for the first few days, bloodshed and the shrieks of sirens and exploding ammunition all day and all night as scrambled military and police fronts took their shot at stemming the alien tide but were unsuccessful.

Onett descended into chaos. Anarchy.

In this small corner of the world, everything has been thrown far enough off-balance that all it might take for that mythical overturning is a single push.

Chris Weaver and his three shadows breach the topworld and burst onto the street, racing as fast as their feet will carry them towards town hall. The building is tall and strong, without so much as a chip in the paint job. The world rises and falls with each step our hero takes as he races across Onett, and he is only dimly aware of the shambling forms creeping out of alleys and gutters as he passes by.

On the steps of town hall, Chris Weaver turns to see a mass of incorrigible beasts toiling in the streets below as 02 through 04 clamor behind him for safety.

Standing there on top of the town, Chris Weaver has totally forgotten the bulky rifle he's half-dragged with him across the avenue. He raises it momentarily as if to aim into the teeming mass of monsters assembled below him, but stops just as fast.

Irrelevant, the thought races through his mind. Hurriedly he turns and begins banging on the mammoth doors to town hall, shrieking and screaming for help. On cue, 02, 03, and 04 fall to the ground and lie perfectly still. Chris continues banging on the door, continues screaming for help, continues trying to keep the thought of the monsters approaching from behind as far away from his consciousness as possible.

The door slips open a crack, a peering eye sees three kids' bodies lying on the steps and the door swings open wider as a startled police officer rushes onto the landing and begins dragging the children into the open door. Chris steps out from behind it, pivots dramatically and brings the barrel of his rifle to meet the officer's face.

Don't move, don't speak, don't do anything, just get back inside.

The three motionless bodies spring to life and clamber indoors as Chris follows suit, the cop coming last and making sure the door locks securely behind them.

Keep him quiet, Chris instructs numbers 02 through 04, who produce pocket knives and circle the police officer who is lying on the floor to catch his breath. Keep him quiet while I go upstairs and bring our message to the mayor.

This is nearly as far as the Sharks' plan for changing the world goes. Not even Chris Weaver knew quite what he was going to say to the mayor, or what he was going to do that was going to usher in the new era.

Chris snickered to himself, of course I don't know what I'm going to say to the mayor because this isn't about the mayor.

This is bigger than the mayor.

Up and up the stairs Chris flies with his rifle, scrambling on all fours as quickly as he can. His jeans are two sizes too small, his sweatshirt hasn't been washed in a week at least. No one pays attention to things like this at the Weaver household, no one cares for the little things like this.

No one cares that Chris's bedroom contained his father's gun cabinet. No one cared that Chris stayed out all day and all night with shady friends conducting shady business.

As Chris Weaver rockets to the roof of town hall, Chris Weaver knows deep in his heart that no one in the Weaver household gives a damm about what he's going to do now either.

But this isn't about them anymore.

Chris throws open the hatch and is on the rooftop in all its glory. It's noon but the sun is obscured, it's dark as night, it's pitch-black except for the hollow glowing eyes that accompany the whirring noises in the bush. The mob of monsters that Chris left at the entrance to town hall is still there, has in fact grown larger, circles now the entire building and from the looks of it, contains every single misshapen creature that has invaded Onett's streets.

Every street is empty except for those surrounding town hall. Chris can see all the houses, lights-on, with faces at the windows peering out at the spectacle. He knows they can see him silhouetted on top of the building, a giant with a gun nearly his size, shadowy justice in the night.

There is only one Shark left.

Chris Weaver wants to shout to the world, wants to put forth his declaration of independence because in Chris's mind, he is sure that as soon as every other teenager aged twelve through sixteen in Onett hears, they'll come running. Chris Weaver is insistent the world will rally to him if he calls, that this is what everything has built towards.

There is a gentle breeze on top of Onett city hall. There are crickets chirping and the ever-present whirr of otherworldly electronica. Chris Weaver wants to scream but he's at a loss for the words of his cause.

He sits down.

Chris Weaver buries his face in his hands as the reality hits him, for sure and for real, now; Chris Weaver has no idea what he's doing on a rooftop in the middle of an interplanetary war. Chris Weaver is just about ready to take back everything he's said about the Sharks, and their purpose, and inheriting the Earth, when a strange flash of light rips across the south side of Onett. Just barely, from his vantage point, Chris can make the figures out to be teenagers.

Human teenagers. Kids just about his own age.

He stands up.

Chris Weaver watches them move, stealthily as they can, down the avenue northwards. They're moving constantly uphill, they're constantly pointing up at the peak where the meteorite hit, and Chris Weaver's resolve is steady and strong now. Chris Weaver is a smart boy and Chris Weaver puts two and two together.

The four kids are heading towards the meteorite. They're trying to avoid encounters with the hostile new citizens of Onett. The thoughts flow into his head easily, as if he wasn't even the one thinking them; Chris Weaver picks up the rifle and sets the sight to his eyes and scopes out the four teenagers.

A sheepish alien approaches them from behind, and Chris Weaver pulls the trigger on the rifle before the mook can catch the unaware kids. It stops and falls over, incapacitated. The four start sprinting instead of sneaking, and some of the horrors, now aware of their presence, give chase.

Chris Weaver smiles and thinks, this is good, this is what I've been waiting for. This is a chance to help my own generation, to prove my worth, to do what the Sharks couldn't.

Chris Weaver has never fired a gun before in his life. It's a miracle that he's already made one shot at such a considerable distance, but the miracle intensifies. As each creature or machine slithers into striking range of the on-the-lam kids, Chris Weaver is able to put it down with a single shot.

Cock, aim, fire, repeat.

Chris feels empowered. Chris feels wonderful.

Chris Weaver has finally reached the heroic ecstasy he's been in search of all his life. With most of the monsters still clustered around town hall trying futilely to reach the mysterious gunman on its roof, the four kids reach the meteorite with no trouble thanks to the marksmanship of one Chris Weaver.

The hatch to the roof flies open again, and a cadre of police officers rush onto the stone-gray slate with pistols drawn and aimed square at Chris Weaver before he has any chance to celebrate.

We've finally caught up to you, they say. Chris drops the gun and falls to his knees, ashamed, ready to cry. He's sorry for everything, now, everything seems so clear in retrospect. He's sorry for the Sharks before Frank, he's sorry for the Sharks after Frank, he's sorry for not having been mature enough to take the world for what it is.

The police apprehend Chris, and as they're putting the handcuffs on, a voice enters Chris's mind through the ether and whispers, "It's okay, Chris. It happens to the best of us, no one is ever sure right off the bat what is right and what is wrong."

"Onett is no different from any town in the world, there is no 'anomaly'. Everyone is a Shark for at least a little bit, Chris. But just as sure, every Shark grows up."

Chris in handcuffs waiting in the town hall basement for the Overrunning to end can only wonder, just what were those kids doing, anyway?

Chris Weaver can only wonder just what good he did saving those kids.

Ha, he thinks.

It was probably nothing important, nothing important at all.


End file.
